


Remembering Her (comes in flashbacks and echoes)

by PullingSunflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Imagine Me & You AU, Lots of Sex, The Devil Wears Prada AU, a compilation of AUs, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PullingSunflowers/pseuds/PullingSunflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>26 Alternate Universes, each one for a letter in the alphabet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haunted

B – **Boys**

The first time Sansa kisses Joffery, his lips are cold and unmoving, and something doesn’t quite fit. He should be the perfect boy, a prince for all of Sansa’s fantasies. She does not know what happened to make her feel like this, to make the kiss awkward and unnatural. The lighting is perfect, Joffery is lovely, and sweet, everything should fit perfectly but it doesn’t.

(Later, she finds out he is not sweet or lovely, but harsh and cruel, as cold as his lips.)

She doesn’t know what she did wrong so she kisses another boy long after her and Joffery break up. It feels all wrong again. Sansa doesn’t commit to any relationship yet, keeps to herself and sometimes kisses a boy she thinks she’ll like but it all feels the same; bland and unimpressive.

Things change when she leaves to attend a university. Henry, a longtime friend, presses a kiss on her lips in her junior year and Sansa _thinks_ she should like him. Henry with his broad shoulders and the way he smiles so boyishly handsome and—most importantly—she has known Henry long enough to know his heart holds no menace. She commits once more, calls herself his girlfriend, looks into his blue eyes and tells him those three empty words. Sansa hates lying, she abhors the way treats her kindly, opens the doors in their car rides and pulling the chairs to their dates. She can’t stand how undeserving she is.

Sansa stays with him through her university years, determined to love this boy who she should love but doesn’t.

Henry deserves that much but Sansa can’t convince herself. They are driving to a beach after her graduation when she breaks and cries and sobs so hard Henry has to stop the car to hold her.

She tells him she’s not right, she feels all broken inside, she tells him she wants so desperately to love him but she can’t—all the words jumble together like the knots of a rope that’s bond to her heart. Perhaps she is not meant for love at all, she says, maybe she has half of a heart and it’s made to only love herself.

Henry holds her tight and tells her the opposite; Sansa Stark loves fairytales and dreams of romance and loves her friends and even Henry .

“I’m not in love with you,” she admits and waits for a strike or a holler of rage. Henry simply pushes the hair from her face and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I know,” he says.

They keep in touch. Sansa doesn’t dare to think of love anymore. Margaery stops by once in a while with a bottle of wine and pulls her out from her hermit-hole of an apartment, forcing her on the dancefloor. Margaery is the only friend she’s known longer than Henry. They’ve been at each other’s side since she arrived at King’s Landing.

Magaery was fourteen then, two years her senior, but she takes Sansa under her wing. Margaery teaches her how to apply mascara to bring out the blue in her eyes, they dip their hairs in dye that summer she broke up with Joffery. Margaery is the only person who knows about her guilty love of all those horrible romance movies—the ones that don’t even make it to the movie theatres.

Margaery buys the DVDs with their poorly photoshopped covers and they marathon movies and rom-coms until Sansa finds her laugh again.

They go to separate colleges but keep in touch by ways of Skype and—Sansa’s favorite—snail mail. Margaery thinks it old and archaic, but indulges Sansa. She buys stamps, rose scented paper and a personalized letter opener, sets out time to write three, five, ten page letters just to make Sansa happy. Margaery is the only person who knows how to make Sansa smile even on her worse days, even after Henry.

It’s no surprise then—or maybe it is the biggest surprise of it all— that when Margaery slams her mouth against Sansa’s in an alcohol induced state, Sansa feels everything those fairytales ever spoke of.

 

C – **Chase**

Sansa Stark is a the type of girl who could no longer love because love reminded her of the cruelest laugh, of beatings that left angry, swollen welts on her back, of the way love turned her into a prisoner. The feeling of love becomes her enemy; she is furious when something jumps in her chest at Margaery’s presence.

Margaery has never known love beyond the comfort of her family, not even after three marriages. Margaery Tyrell knows adoration and admiration, she knows jealousy in the eyes of her ladies in waiting, these feelings Margaery knows but love she does not. She is quite content with this; the love in those stories stole logic and all reason from its captor, something she could not afford. 

The stories spoke of passionate, dedicated love, the type that burns and dies as quickly as it came. It does not tell Margaery or Sansa the way it can creep in the dark of the night or in each sunny smile. So when Sansa’s chest thumbs awkwardly as Margaery’s hand brushes hers as they walk the gardens, Sansa is frantic, furious and confused at this sudden intrusion.

Margaery is glowing, a strange lightness has settled in her bosom and she enjoys every moment in Sansa Stark’s presence, every shy smile that Sansa Stark passes _only_ to her.

Sansa draws away, afraid of this feeling. Margaery chases, unable to stop herself.

 

D – (The) **Devil Wears Prada**

Margaery does not like Sansa Stark.

Margaery Tyrell is Cersei Lannister’s assistant, the only one who has managed to hang onto her position longer than six months. The last assistant, the one Sansa is replacing, mysteriously disappeared after a private five minute meeting with Cersei. Exasperated at the ever revolving door of her office, Cersei has decided to take counsel from the Human Resource department instead of picking a size 2 from the runways.

HR sends Sansa Stark stumbling into the office three days later, red hair tumbling in a mess, eyes wide like that of a doe’s. She looks terrified and absolutely horrible in her grey knitted cardigan that is definitely from last year’s catalog. Margaery almost cringes for her.

“I—I have an interview with Ms. Lannister,” Sansa says, looking at Margaery for direction. Margaery looks up from her computer, wondering if she should send the girl home. It would certainly save Sansa the embarrassment and the eventual mortification that would inevitably follow her post interview. Margaery takes one last steely glance at Sansa, into  blue eyes and—she pauses—there is something in there besides fear. Perhaps determination?

She phones into Cersei Lannister’s room.

“The interviewee is here, Ms. Lannister. Yes. Very well. Yes, it is all prepped. You have thirty minutes before your meeting with Mr. Allister. I’ll send her in right away.” The phone clicks back down in its place. Margaery gestures Sansa through the door.

She expects to never see the girl again.

Sansa shows up the next day in an equally ugly sweater and heels so low, it can’t possibly be more than two centimeters. Margaery is so appalled she has to go down to the fashion department on Floor 46 to search for something that would fit the girl. A fleeting observation skips into her mind; she has nice legs. Legs that could go on for miles, ones that even the models on this floor would die to have.

Margaery shakes away the foreign, intrusive thought. She winks, smiles and jokes with man the in charge until he lets her run off with some of last season’s favorites. It’s better than the atrocity sitting in Cersei Lannister’s office, she thinks, probably mumbling through the phone calls. Not that Margaery cares for the girl—not at all—she’s just trying to make her job easier.

Margaery most definitely does not care for Sansa Stark.

 

E – **Exception**

Perhaps Sansa’s best quality is her obliviousness. She is unaware of her own beauty, how the length of her legs and neck are measurements girls dream of. Sansa is unaware of the way Margaery looks at her, unaware of the way Margaery wants her.

To her, Margaery is her best friend and nothing more.  

They are lounging in the Tyrell estate’s massive swimming pool, trying to soak up the last bits of summer before winter comes. Sansa, sprawled on a lawn chair, her auburn hair glowing in the sun, has fallen asleep with a magazine on her chest; again completely unaware.  Margaery is finishing her last lap around the pool, somehow hoping to drown the burn between her legs.

When she can’t—it was a fruitless effort anyways—she lifts herself from the pool, barely winded. Water splashes on the warm concrete, making dark patterns on its white porous surface. Margaery is carefully quiet, stepping near the lawn table and grabbing a towel to throw around her neck. She looks over to Sansa just once to check if her friend is still asleep but her eyes refuse to leave the swell of her chest.

By the Sevens and all other Gods, Margaery thinks to herself, she is _such_ a lesbian.

Sansa knows of her preference, though it is rarely brought up. There isn’t a reason for it. Margaery doesn’t have a girlfriend and every time Sansa asks, she shrugs it off.

If only Sansa knew, Margaey thinks. If only Sansa was aware of the way Margaery’s eyes, vicious and hungry, desired nothing more than to see Sansa naked and whimpering under her able hands. Margaery wanted Sansa in ways she could hardly put into words; long neck smeared with Margaery’s shade of lipstick, back arched and legs trembling, breasts in Margaery’s mouth.

Was there a word for the way Margaery wanted Sansa? Lust? A deep, desperate need to show this girl that she was wanted, that the person who could fulfill every one of Sansa’s wishes was right in front of her? Margaery’s ambitions for the valedictorian seat in class or the PM seat in Parliament later in life was nothing compared to the intensity in which she pined after Sansa.

And Sansa was so unaware.

Margaery does not make herself entitled, the friendzone was a nonexistent area boys put them in, something they laughed at together.  She does not step in between Sansa and the boy she is dating that week or month. If Sansa were to love her, she would want it to come naturally.

But Margaery doesn’t stop herself when she walks over to Sansa. It is a rare sight to see Sansa asleep in the sunlight. She is so very beautiful with the natural pout of her mouth. Margaery wants to kiss her, feel those lips press against her own and tongue across them, tasting whatever lipgloss Sansa has chosen for the day.

Purposefully, Margaery lets a few droplets of water drip from her wet hair and onto to Sansa.

Sansa frowns, wipes the water from her face and clings to sleep. Margaery’s smile turns menacing and she lowers herself so several drops fall directly on Sansa’s face and chest. The girl groans awake.

“Marg…” Sansa calls out, the pout in full force. “Stop it.”

Margaery laughs, peels the magazine from Sansa’s belly. “You’re going to get the worst tanline if you keep the magazine there.” She puts it on the small table set next to Sansa, grabbing the cold glass of water. “And keep hydrated, its still scorching.”

When she turns around, Sansa is very red and very much staring at her lower back. Her gaze flickers to the drink that Margaery is handing her. Quickly, Sansa takes it and gulps down the water in silence. Margaery pretends to not have noticed.

In truth, she’s known for some time now that Sansa doesn’t _just_ fancy boys. Or maybe she doesn’t fancy boys at all. A woman’s sexuality is very mysterious. She lets Sansa work it out on her own, giving her encouragements here and there, the same way Sansa did for her. 

Sansa sits up, finishing her water bottle. “Are you done swimming?”

Margaery sits down on the same lawn chair, humming a yes.

“Good, I’m burning.”

“You don’t have to be out here,” Margaery reminds lightly, rolling her eyes. She’s grown exasperated from trying to save Sansa from the sun. Everyone knows the Starks don’t tan. They only burn. Sansa will probably turn red as a lobster and crying in pain when Margaery forces alloevera on her skin tomorrow.

“You know…I’m starting to think you only come out here to stare at me in a bikini,” Margaery jests, taking another towel to dry away her hair.

Sansa makes a noise, “If I did, I wouldn’t have fall asleep.”

“Maybe you’re dreaming of me.”

“Maybe I am.” Sansa’s smile is playfully wicked. “You’ll never know.”

Margaery gives her knee a gentle, playful shove. “I hope you have gross, lesbionic dreams of me.”

“Excuse you.” Sansa gawks. “I’m a lady. Even my lesbian dreams are tasteful.”

Really? Because mine aren’t, Margaery wants to say. The dreams she has of Sansa are far from tasteful and lady-like. Instead, Margaery sees an opening in Sansa’s choice of words and leans forward, “So are you admitting you have lesbian dreams?”

“No!” Sansa’s nose crinkles. That’s a yes.

“I bet it involves the weird dragon girl—Dany, is her name?”

 “Dany’s a friend,” Sansa puffs her chest and Margaery has to rip her eyes from following a droplet of sweat down those valleys. “I would never.”

“It’s alright, Sansa. Everyone has a girl crush.” Margaery coos then she grins. “Look at me, I live the girl crush life.”

Sansa audibly snorts.

“You’ve got to have one, there’s no shame about it,” Margaery coaxes, “Just one exception.”  

A part of Margaery hopes she’s that exception.  

“Okay, okay,” Sansa holds her hand up in defeat, cheeks glowing red, “that girl in Elementary? The one in the new Hunger Games movie--Natalie Dormer? I totally would shag her.”

 

F— **Fury**

They are not ladies. 

Not with the way Sansa drives a knife into Petyr Baelish’s heart and Margaery straddles the boy-king, clamping a clawed hand around his neck the night of their marriage.  They are broken in a thousand ways, Margaery who has survived more kings than a lady should, Margaery who lets a lord or prince or man push her to a wall and smother her mouth with his because she loved her family enough to give away that precious part of her.

And Sansa, poor Sansa, who can never erase the image of her father’s head on a pike, or the knowledge of Robb’s head being sown onto his wolf’s. There is something dead in her eyes, a coolness in her eyes that has been passed down from Ned Stark to is daughter. She shuts down the most sensitive parts of herself to play the same, to survive, but now the world is numb at her fingertips.

The storybook romances have lost its charm.

When Sansa has one cup too many of the Tyrell rosewine, they find themselves falling into bed together. It is not soft. They are desperate. Sansa aches to feel something, anything. She claws at Margaery’s dress until it is torn and ruined. Margaery has her hand gripping so tightly in flaming red hair Sansa should be crying out in pain. Their teeth scrape together, Sansa biting down on those pouting bottom lips of Margaery’s, sucking hard until she tastes blood.

Margaery pulls away.   

“Kiss me,” Sansa demands, fury and rage and so much pain behind those blue eyes, “fuck me.”

The older girl halts. For a moment, Margaery is reminded of her own innocence. Then she is cupping Sansa’s cheeks in her hands, kissing her so slowly it hurts. It shouldn’t be like this. Sansa is so accustomed to pain that she abhors the softness of Margaery’s kiss.

Sansa makes her demand again, wanting to be taken, wanting the intensity and passion and enough of it to melt her walls. Margaery denies her this, favoring to push her against the mattress and kissing gently at exposed skin.  Sansa pulls her up from her descent, her face a storm of emotions.

“ _Fuck_ me,” Sansa repeats once more. “Want me.”

Margaery kisses her hard. She does, truly. She wants Sansa so desperately she does not want to soil this girl with her soiled hands, she does not want Sansa to feel the possessive touch of hands on her body the way Margaery had experienced.

“I want you,” Margaery says, taking Sansa’s swollen lips again. “I want you so much I cannot _fuck_ you, sweet girl.”

Frustration breaks from Sansa’s lips, she lets out an unpleased sound. “You can,” she coldly says.

“I can,” Margaery nods, “but I will not.”

Margaery kisses Sansa again, who does not respond. Margaery snickers when she pulls away, thinking Sansa still wants to play this game even in bed. Her hand quickly descends, brushing past the velvety skin to cup Sansa. The girl’s brows furrow, she bites her lip but does not react.

“I could fuck you, Lady Sansa,” Margaery says, including Sansa’s title as if to humor the girl. Her fingers plunges into wet folds, Margaery angles her palm expertly to grind against that certain spot. Sansa still refuses to cry out. “I could take you like this,” she punctuates each word with a hard thrust until Sansa is trembling, “but you will wake tomorrow, feeling empty as you do today.”

Margaery presses their fronts together, letting her breasts touch Sansa’s. Her hand slows. “Let me make love to you,” she whispers, “let me show you how much I want you.”

Sansa melts; nods and wraps her arms around Margaery’s neck after contemplating for a very long moment.

“Okay,” she says hoarsely, “okay.”

 

G – **Garden** (Sansa builds Margaery a glass garden)

Sansa builds Margaery a glass garden during her stay at Winterfell. It’s small, they are low on resources during the dead of winter, only several paces wide and can hold about a dozen medium sized plants. Margaery still gasps, embracing Sansa tightly.

By some work of the Seven, Margaery makes everything grow. The glass garden becomes her haven, a blooming forest of various flowers and plants. Soon enough, the little place becomes famous to the people of Winterfell. In their complete adoration, Margaery sometimes takes a few children in her little space and teaches them the miracle of life.

Even Sansa, busy with the political turmoil of the North, sometimes comes to watches Margaery work. Margaery is a sight with the way she allows her hair to fall over her face and sweat to linger on her neck and nose. Sansa has never seen Margaery work so physically, lifting up the potted plants and heavy soil by herself. The curve of her back is especially magnificent when Margaery leans over the table, arched to cut away rose thorns.

Sansa does not fancy voyeuristic and they keep their coupling within their locked bedchambers but when she watches Margaery work, something within her stirs. She cannot stop herself when Margaery looks up at her with that smile, the arousing curve of her lips begging to be kissed. Sansa throws caution to the wind and closes the distance between them.

She is taller than Margaery, something she never noticed in their time at King’s Landing. Here at Wiinterfell where Sansa is its Lady, Margaery is on her knees for Sansa in more ways than one and Sansa finally notices the height difference. Surprise overtakes Margaery’s delicate features when Sansa tucks a hand under her chin, forcing her to look up. 

They kiss, Sansa becoming so engrossed that she has to grab hold of those brown locks and, with her other hand, pull Margaery closer. Margaery stiffens; her lover does not take to the possibly public display and pushes Sansa back.

“My Lady,” Margaery says steadily, pink tongue flickering out to run across pink lips, “shall we retire to your bedchambers?”

 

H – **Haunted** (Sansa remembers a girl she’s never met)

She comes to Sansa in her dreams—because in her dreams is the only time Margaery visits her. Sometimes they are holding hands, walking through a garden that feels all too familiar, wearing dresses that have never been in fashion. They have conversations, talk about people Sansa doesn’t really know, but feels as if she knows.

They talk about a boy named Joffery and she isn’t sure what he has done to her but his name leaves a sour taste in her mouth. Other times, Margaery takes her to a large meadow and they lay together, Margaery against the large oak tree, Sansa against Margaery’s lap. They read, Margaery tells her about a place called Highgarden—and Sansa remembers enough to search the web for it in the morning.

Nothing turns up. After a long time, she gives up. Her mother thinks Margaery is an imaginary friend because Sansa would talk about her so often growing up. “Maybe that’s why you dream of her,” she says but Sansa doesn’t believe the sentiment, even if she wanted to.

Her dreams feel real, as if her mind never really sleeps. Sansa walks the downtown streets and sometimes she will catch the sound of a laugh or the blaze of brown hair that is _just_ the right shade and it makes Sansa’s head whip back around. Realities blend in together; she visits gardens and sometimes rivers, meadows, takes hiking trips onto far off places because a phone doesn’t fit as nice in her hand as she wants it to. Sansa taps away at her computer at work but she yearns for something more, something like the outside air as freezing winds and snow blanketed London.

By the time she’s twenty five, Sansa isn’t sleeping at all. She wakes and never feels as rested as she should, the world is just a blur and her dreams are the only time she can see _her_ and it’s the only time Sansa feels at ease. She’s twenty five when she meets Margaery and even though she does not know this Margaery, the sight is familiar all the same.

Sansa can always tell, no matter what kind of dream she is having, who Margaery is. Sometimes her eyes are brown, warm honey brown that makes her think of summer. Sometimes her eyes are blue—like Sansa’s—but a different shade and they are just as lovely as the honey brown. Her hair varies in colors from golden blonde silken threads to a dark brunette—although she’s only met the latter version of Margaery once.

It’s her smile that gives her away. It’s the smile that smiles as if she knows the little secrets of the world, the one that boasts charm and the grace in all things, the same smile that leads Sansa through their gardens. It is only fitting that Sansa finds Margaery at a garden. It’s a small Japanese garden, one that Sansa had never visited because it is on the outskirts of London.

The Japanese cherry blossom trees are in full bloom and, at Jeyne’s insistence, she goes. Sansa spots Margaery instantly, she is a dark blonde and Sansa thinks maybe it is because of the year’s harsh summer that turns her hair is this light. Sansa thinks herself foolish for all those times she has chased strangers down the Tube or through a shop, thinking maybe they are Margaery. How could she have been mistaken? Even from behind, she knows with absolutely certainty who this woman is.

“Excuse me,” Sansa says, almost completely breathless.

The woman turns, her bulky professional camera strapped around her neck. They meet eyes. Sansa stops breathing entirely.

“Hi.”

Margaery blinks—Sansa feels presumptuous for assuming her name—but her mind is spinning and that is the only sure thing she knows.

“Hello,” is the reply.

“I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark,” she introduces herself, sticking out her hand far too quickly to hide her anxiousness. Margaery takes her hand, holds it in place, stroking her thumb across Sansa’s palm and doesn’t let go.

“I know,” she says, smiling that smile, “I’m Margaery.”

Sansa replies effortlessly, “I know.”    

 

I – **Imagine** (me and you)

The first time you see Margaery Tyrell, you’re in a wedding dress. You don’t marry Margaery but you see her and it is enough to make you pause when the priest asks “Will you take Henry as your lawfully wedded husband?”.

“Yes.”

You drop your wedding ring in the punch. Margaery is there still adjusting flowers. For all her grace and beauty, she doesn’t hesitate to plunge a hand into bright red juice to fish out your wedding ring. She slips it back into your hand and something clicks inside of you.

You find out she runs the local flowershop when she isn’t out doing some charity with her and her affluent family. You ask why doesn’t she follow her grandmother’s footsteps into politics and she says she’s grown up around it so much that she’s grown tired of it. Flowers are easier, simpler, she explains as she walks you through the reception area—it’s embarrassing that she knows more of it than you do. To fill the silence, she expounds on her choices in the flowers, winking when she says “the white lilies represent purity and innocence—virginity.”

You almost roll your eyes.

She laughs. “Fidelity and stead-worthiness—that is the other meaning behind white lilies.”

Henry finds you two and pulls you into a dance. You watch as she smiles encouragingly before turning around and leaving.

Something pulls you to invite her to dinner a week later. From the sink, you hear Henry ask, “So are you married? Going to be married?” and without missing a beat, she replies, “Maybe, now that the laws have changed.”

Your hand stills in the sink, you quit watching water fill the pitcher you’re filling to put her flowers in. The subtly flies right Henry’s head.

“How do you mean?”

“I’m gay.”

Silence. Water overflows the pitcher.

“Well done,” Henry congratulates her, nodding his head. You pour out the excess water and stick her bouquet of flowers in it, wondering what all those flowers mean. Henry invites Heck over for dinner and he tries very hard to charm Margaery. You slip and say there are some very gorgeous women around, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers, the something that clicked in your chest grows warm.

Heck interludes. “I know and I’m trying to sleep with as many as I can.”

Somehow, the conversation winds up on the topic of love, more specifically, love at first sight. After Joffery, you stop believing in such romantic things. But the way Margaery says it feels like she’s taken it straight out of a fairytale.

“I think you know. As soon as your eyes meet…” she’s looking straight at you, “Then everything that happens from then on just proves you had been right since that first moment. When you realize you were incomplete. And now you are whole.”

Later, you want to ask her how she knows this, has she experienced that type of love before, has she found someone whose eyes have looked into hers and she’s felt complete? But you are too afraid of the answers. You are too afraid to even ask yourself.

You don’t feel whole with Henry. You feel comfortable. Perhaps that is enough. Better than what Joffery gave you.      

The two of you become fast friends. She takes you to the soup kitchen that her family runs, you help the poor and children far less fortunate than you. Her family is tolerable, pleasant people with the exception of her grandmother who frightens you to the core. Something about the way her eyes stare into you, flicker back and forth between you and Margaery that makes you tremble. 

She makes it feel as if the two of you are hiding some secret, an affair maybe. It’s ridiculous, it’s a ridiculous thought because you have never fancied a girl and only in your drunken stupor do you even think about kissing other girls. Besides, that was in university. You’re an adult now.

You’re adults but she takes you to an old arcade and the two of you relive the nineties, dance on a DDR machine probably older than your combined ages and laugh about the Y2K bug. She teaches you how to holler at a football game that her brother, Loras, is playing in. You’ve never felt so alive.

Something warm envelopes you when the two are you are walking down the streets. You ask her to tell you about her flowers again, because you love her voice, you love the way it sounds when she rattles off about hydrangeas and casa blancas, you love her hair that is the shade of light brown and you love her lips that curl so perfectly.

She tells you about the tiger lily. It means, in her words, “I dare you to love me.”

In your mind, it is an invitation. You’ve gone mad. You think she dares you to love her, and that would be a horribly easy dare because she is this lovely girl, with such a lovely smile, and everything she does makes your chest ache. You look at her lips and they, too, are terribly tempting.

You lean in. She tilts her head just slightly but it’s enough to let you know she’s agreeing to this—agreeing to kiss you.

A loud truck blazes down the road. Its roaring engine and headlight is enough to make you pull away.

 

J – **Joffery**

Joffery and two boys are towering over Arya by the time Sansa finds her. She’s small but her eyes are fierce, blazing with anger. She’s in only in her third year but picks fights with students three or four times her senior. Most of the time she wins but sometimes she comes home with bruises or limping and it upsets their mother. Sansa and Robb intervene as often as they can, picking her up after her fencing classes, never letting her linger after  football games. They take turns keeping an eye out for her during their lunch but Arya has a mouth on her no one can shut and it gets her into situations.

Robb sends her a text, telling her Arya isn’t in her geometry class when he passed by. Sansa has to throw away half her lunch.

_I’ll look in the east wing. Meet u in the main hall?_

Robb replies instantaneously. _Yes._

When Sansa turns the corner, she hears Joffery calling Arya a dyke. Sansa’s fists clench. She immediately puts herself between her sister and the monster. Sansa rarely intervenes, she usually holds out until Robb arrives to scare away the boys or sweet talks them into backing down. Arya understands this and, for once, shuts her mouth.

Joffery does not.

“Your big sister here to save you?” His dead eyes fall to her chest and he stares, uninhibited. Briefly, Sansa thinks Joffery is one of the few human beings kept alive because the laws forbid murder. Sansa clears her throat. He sneers, almost spits in her face. “Sansa, would you be proud of having a dyke for a sister?”

Sansa can feel Arya’s furious anger, hot as white iron. She reaches back and places her hand on Arya’s shoulder. For all of Arya’s heat, Sansa is as cool as winter; her anger does not come out violently. No, the cold takes unwitting travelers slowly.

“We were trying to…talk some sense to her.” The two behind Joffery mumble something in agreement. “The famous Stark family letting their daughter go around with short hair, wearing a boy’s uniforms. You can’t tell me you like her as she is?”

Arya has a lot of faults. She once farted into a pillow and threw it at Sansa’s face. She loves jokes and consistently has dirt under her fingernails. She’s not a lady and skips her violin lessons; she makes her older siblings watch over her constantly. But Arya is her sister, she is a Stark, fierce as a wolf. Sansa loves her relentlessly, even if she never says it aloud.

“Arya can dress whatever way she likes,” Sansa declares.

“Even if she looks a dyke?” Joffery says coolly.

Sansa is staring him down. He is foolish to pick a fight with Arya, but Arya is a fighter and won’t say who she loses to. He won’t dare strike Sansa—not at school anyways. Sansa’s lips curve upwards into a cold smile.

“You’ve got the wrong Stark. My little sister isn’t a dyke.” Sansa weaves a single hand in her hair, brushing it back behind her shoulder, “I am.”

Joffery goes slack jaw. Sansa can feel Arya smirk. That was certainly one way to come out.

Suddenly, Margaery’s heels click from down the hallway. Robb’s boots are sounding off as well, in tandem with Margaery. They appear by her side in the minute that it takes Joffery to close his mouth. Margaery has a bemused look on her face. She probably heard Sansa.

“Joffery,” Margaery acknowledges in a sickly sweet tone.

Joffery flushes. He avoids Margaery like the plague after he spent a year whipped like her little lapdog only to be rejected when he asked her to the winter formal. The shame apparently follows him to this day. A hand falls to Sansa’s waist and Sansa leans back just so, smiling wider when her back touches Margaery’s front.

It suddenly becomes obvious to Joffery. He goes red faced. Yes, Margaery turned Joffery down for the winter formal because she was too busy snogging Sansa. 

“Is there something you want to talk to my girlfriend and her sister about?” Margaery asks, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Joffery turns around and makes his way down the hallway without another word; his two friends following close behind. When he is out of earshot, Arya speaks up.

“That was the sickest burn. Ever.”

 

K – **Kneel**

Margaery arrives at King’s Landing when it is still in the Targaryen’s black and red colors. Her entourage of bannermen and handmaidens wait outside the castle at her insistence. This was a delicate matter and she would not have the Queen think of her anything more than a friend. There would be no need for protection.

Sansa Stark, bathed in blues and greys, is seated upon the Iron Throne when she enters. Margaery kneels without having been asked.

“House Tyrell swears its loyalty to the crown, Your Grace,” she announces.

The Queen sighs and stands. Margaery looks up at the noise and she finds Sansa towering over her. Then, to the court’s surprise, Sansa falls to her knees. She is shaking her head steadily, brushing at the ash and cuts in Margaery’s chainmail. Her cold eyes belie something warmer.

“Please,” Sansa says, “please do not kneel.”

They stand together, Sansa insisting Winterfell would have fallen if it weren’t for the Tyrell’s support. Margaery catches the hidden message. Had she not taken to arms, thrown away her sewing supplies and replaced it with a sword, rallied The Reach to help dispel the Others, Sansa’s home would be nothing more than a forgotten place on a map.

“The Crown is in your debt,” Sansa says. “How can we repay you, Lady Margaery?”

“If you will have me, Your Grace…” Margaery looks into Sansa’s cold blue eyes, unblinking. “Make me your queen.”

 

L – **Laugh**

Margaery takes Sansa’s hand and leads her away from their camp, smiling as sun spots leaking in from the canopy dots her chestnut hair, making it turn a lovely shade of gold. Sansa doesn’t question why they are moving with such haste or wonder where Margaery is leading her. When Margaery is looping her arm around her waist, whispering a simple request in her ears, Sansa cannot deny Margaery even if she asked for the world.

So Margaery takes her far beyond the dense trees on a little worn path that leaves the bridge of Sansa’s nose gleaming with sweat. They duck under low lying branches, laughing at the way one manages to swipe at Sansa’s cheeks. It is the only time they stop, Margaery turning around just in time to see the branch bend and halfheartedly snap at Sansa.

Margaery laughs at the sight, silly as it was to see the branch tangle in auburn hair. Sansa’s lovely response follows, girlish giggles echo off into the forest. Margaery can’t help but gaze adoringly upon the girl—whose height is to blame for the accident. She closes the distance between them and kisses the sore little spot at the apple of Sansa’s cheek.

They return to traveling in silence, this time with more urgency. Sansa concentrates on the sounds of the forest; birds, beetles, the rustle of leaves and—water? The breaking of branches beneath their hawking boots is now laced with the sound of running water. Sansa slows, mesmerized by symphony of nature.

“A river?” Sansa asks.

Margaery smiles and squeezes her hand. “Not quite, sweet girl.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow, listening once again. “A waterfall.”

“So clever,” Margaery confirms and Sansa’s chest clenches so hard it almost aches. “It’s my favorite one.” 

In truth, she had never seen a waterfall. All of Winterfell’s were frozen, iced over and unapproachable. To Sansa, waterfalls were almost as mythical as the fairies and water nymphs that dwelled within them. A place for princesses and warriors to bath in their long travels, the secret meeting place for two young lovers. The last thought makes her blush.

The forest breaks into a clearing and the waterfall is not a league far from it. It nestles against a cliff face, feeding into a larger river their entourage probably passed by earlier this morning. The water is shallow and clear, a perfect contrast to the lovely tall grass that grows around it. Sunlight flows down, unfiltered, causing every droplet of water that falls to scatter and gleam.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa says, quiet as if she were admitting a secret, almost afraid that she if spoke any louder, this haven would disappear.

“It’s a family secret,” Margaery turns to her, the image of a princess with the waterfall as the backdrop. “Grandmother said only Tyrells could visit this place.”

“I’m not…” Sansa’s ears burn at the implication.

Margaery laughs, turning her face to the sky and sunlight. “Maybe you will be a Tyrell one day.”

The three Tyrell brothers are married Sansa thinks, head is spinning. Margaery steadies her by pressing an easy kiss at her forehead. “Come,” she says, “you have yet to experience the best part.”

Margaery beckons, Sansa follows. Soon they arrive at the edge of the small pond and it is surprisingly deeper than Sansa had thought. Margaery strips off her boots and pulls at her stockings until her legs are bare. Sansa has to look away; she has never seen another woman’s bare ankle. As if sensing her discomfort, Margaery hikes her skirt above her knees and steps into the water.\

“Won’t you join me?” Margaery asks. Again, Sansa feels the pull of a thousand strings tugging at her chest. She cannot deny this request; there was not a force on the heavens or earth that could stop Sansa from submerging herself in the water only because Margaery had asked.

Sansa forgoes the condition of her skirt and lets it ripple out in the water as she steps in. Margaery does the same, using her free hands to reach into the water and splash a cupful at Sansa. Sansa is shocked; a tiny yelp escapes her lips as cold droplets hit her face. It is not long before they are soaked, their dresses ruined, laughing childishly as they flick water at each other.

They move like a dance, coming together to scoop, scatter and set fly a wave before retreating from the spray. Margaery takes a risk by stepping forward, getting hit directly in the face. Sansa gawks at the damage she has caused; water is tumbling down Margaery’s hair and sticking to her cheeks. Before she can react, Margaery wraps an arm around her waist and locks her into place.

She moves without hesitation, hand lifting, cupping not wetness but Sansa’s cheek. Sansa parts her lips thinking how prettily Margery looks with tiny droplets sticking and shining on her eyelashes. They kiss.


	2. Remembering Her

R – **Remembering Her (comes in flashbacks and echoes)**

Margaery has dreams of endless winter even though she spends her summers in warm, southern France. Even though the fields of grass and the flower crowns she weaves feels natural in her hand, it is the cold that brings her flashes of blue eyes. Those blue eyes are lovely and lonely.

The images don’t come to her until she is about fourteen. It starts one winter day when Margaery is back home in London, pulling a fashionable scarf over her neck. She opens the door and a cold gust greets her like a wave of nostalgia. She has to stumble back, the sensation of having experienced winter for a lifetime hits her. Something stirs inside of Margaery.

Margaery tries to blink away her confusion but every time she closes her eyes, she sees a pair of blues staring into her. It comes to her like a dream, she is clinging onto the image but it does not last long. She thinks, maybe, she’s become a loon.

It’s not until she is seventeen that she sees the owner of those blue eyes, eyes that haunt her every winter. Sometimes, Margaery would sit jacketless in the cold with her eyes closed, drawing up the girl’s image in her mind. She doesn’t know why she does it, only that she feels the need to know. Eventually, she sees her lips, thin but pouting, a pleasant shade of pink. Her hair is red and long, her jaw is square and her cheekbones are high.

She is beautiful.

Margaery takes up photography and painting. She tries again and again to draw this girl, but Margaery keeps getting the angles wrong, or the lighting isn’t right. Margaery changes her medium, tries pencil pastels, water colors, acrylics. They all fail to capture the girl. Whatever her hand draws is nothing compared to the vision she sees. In desperation, Margaery chases down strangers, takes their picture because they have a certain feature that reminds her so much of this girl.

Those don’t come out right either.

No one’s hair is the right shade of red, she hasn’t meant anyone with that complexion in their skin; the perfect smoothness smattered with freckles. By the time Margaery is twenty five, she has a large enough portfolio of photographs and paintings to draw the eyes of curators. Not that she cares.

She knows the girl’s name now, it’s Sansa. She’s known for quite some time, they’ve spoken in gardens of dreams. Sansa speaks so softly to her, as if each word is a secret. Sansa lays on her lap and lets Margaery read to her books in languages she isn’t sure ever existed. They walk amongst flowers, meadows lovelier than any she has ever visited. 

Her subject turns from portraits to flowers. Margaery draws each one that her other-self presents to Sansa. Each one feels like she is stepping closer to knowing the girl, as if each picture brings her to life. She’s met variations of Sansa too—Sansa when her hair is not fire engine red but dark as night. Sansa whose smile is dim and wilting, she’s met several different Sansas in what feels like several different worlds. Still, she knows this is the same girl she has been chasing; those blue eyes always stay the same. 

She’s photographing a tiger lily one day in an exotic garden she frequently visits. Margaery has been watching and waiting for it to bloom, coming every day to tend to the single lily. A woman’s voice stops her from snapping the perfect photo.

“Excuse me.”

Margaery’s blood runs cold. Nothing in the world could have stopped her hands from trembling. She turns slowly, careful to make sure her legs do not give in.

“Hi,” the girl says.

 She’s about Margaery’s age, maybe younger. Her hair is the perfect shade of red. Margaery wants to ask to photograph her out of habit. The most she can get out of her mouth is quiet, “Hello.”

Margaery is going down her checklist at breakneck speed as the girl offers a handshake. Sunset red hair, pouting lips, spotting of freckles light against white skin, a square jaw, cheekbones, those eyes, blue eyes that has haunted Margaery for years.

“I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Margaery takes the girl’s hand and holds it, so afraid to let go. “I know,” stumbles out of her mouth before she can catch it. Feeling pretentious, she adds, “I’m Margaery.”

The girl’s blue eyes twinkle in the way that Margaery can only recall in her dreams. “I know.”

 

 **A -- Alliance** (the Starks make an alliance with the Tyrells, Sansa falls in love at first sight)

The Starks gather into a line, Sansa and Robb, the two eldest flanking their parents. Sansa has to wipe the dirt from Arya’s cheek, despite having been specifically instructed to keep away from dirt and swordsplay for the day. In front of them, the envoy of green and yellow halts a few strides away. A man holding the banner with the Tyrell insignia announces the arrival of Highgarden’s Lord and Lady—and their fabled children.

They file out of the carriage like royalty. Sansa feels as if she is witnessing a scene from her storybook unfold. Lord Tyrell and his lady wife exit first, both are dressed in in the style of the south; flowing fabrics regrettably soaking in dirt and snowmelt. The three sons of Highgarden appear next, each brother more handsome than the one before. Garlan, Willas and Loras Tyrell are the pictures of knights with their swords and silken tunics.

Lastly, Margaery Tyrell steps down from the carriage. Sansa swears all of Winterfell take in a collective breath. The commoners’ whispers stop immediately, not even a bog dares to bark. The Rose of Highgarden is everything that her father and mother described; beautiful enough to cause a rider to run his horse into an open market because they met eyes. Sansa had seen pretty girls, beautiful girls, girls with hair as fine and flowing as gold, girls with lips just the right amount of pink—yes Sansa Stark had met pretty girls, but she’s never met Margaery.

It is only through a sick joke played by Arya does she find herself in the company of Margaery Tyrell. Arya has taken to putting buckets of snowmelt on top of various doors in the Winterfell castle. The cook has been caught in more than one bone chilling wave; Arya nearly went hungry for a night if Robb had not intervened.

Sansa is passing by the west wing, making her way to the courtyard when she hears a girlish yelp. She only has to turn the corner to see Margaery with her hair wet and matted against her perfect face, the top of her dress soaked. She stands at the entrance, door still open, frozen in shock.

Sansa rushes over, apologizing verbally and cursing Aryamentally. Their father needs the Tyrell’s support—what would Mace Tyrell think if he heard of the childish antics Eddard Stark allow to progress inside his castle?

“It—it’s my sister, you have to understand, she does not realize she is a lady yet.” Sansa is reaching inside her dress to draw out a handkerchief, offering it to Margaery. “She’s pranked half the castle with this trick of hers.”

Margaery looks down to examine the bucket and then, to Sansa’s surprise, Margaery _laughs_. “Your sister is clever,” she says, chuckling.

Sansa catches herself staring at the way those lovely brown eyes folded in mirth. She forces her eyes down, noticing the wetness of Margaery’s dress. “You’ll catch a cold” Sansa manages, wondering where her voice has gone, “You should change, Lady Margaery.”

Margaery nods, smiles, a spark of something catching in her eyes. “Will you help me?”

 

Q – **Queensroad**

When Westoros broke, the North Queen took all of her family’s land from The Wall to Riverrun. The Dragon Queen claimed all that was eastern Westoros, predominantly The Stormlands and Dorne. The Reach remained in control by House Tyrell and its matriarch, the Rose Queen, who quickly sent her bannermen across former Lannister territory.

Sansa Stark ruled over rubble, Daenerys Targaryen ruled over King’s Landing and Margaery Tyrell ruled over meadows and men. They became the Three Queens and history did not take well to their names.

Sansa Stark was accredited for being a soft ruler, as just as her father and as revolutionary as her eldest brother. Perhaps the only difference between Sansa and the men in her family was their state of living; the Stark men were dead. History did not mention the way she ran a knife into Roose Bolton’s heart and watched, unblinking, as the light disappeared from his eyes. Surely, history did not remember Sansa Stark as her blue eyes gazed upon her ruined castle and how she did not cry.

History painted her descent into the crown as a series of accidents; her knightly husband, Harrold Hardying, was _surely_ a brave man and died in battle. Only a few books whispered of the way the man who only suddenly disappeared without a trace of blood after Roose Bolton’s death. And of course, it was because of Sansa Stark’s devotion to her husband and her vows to the Seven that she never remarried. As the only and last Stark in Winterfell, the crown fell in her lap—that is what history remembered.

The commoners remembered Sansa Stark as the girl who was more beautiful than their Lady Catelyn, the woman who waged no war, the princess without a prince, the Queen without children. More than anything, the commoners remembered Sansa Stark as the girl who made sure they never starved.

Whether by political mechanizations or fate, an alliance was somehow with struck with Mace Tyrell—who was still alive when Sansa ascended her throne. In return for the promise a steady supply of foodstuffs and able bodied men, Margaery would find home in Winterfell’s court. Many wondered if the Tyrells knew the last remaining male heir of House Stark had been buried at the Wall the same time the alliance was struck. What was the Rose of Highgarden doing in Winterfell if there were no other men deserving her hand in marriage?

History depicted Margaery Tyrell with only an ounce of truth more than it did for Sansa Stark. History did not remember her as the protégé of the great Lady Olenna Tyrell, her love for flowers—or women for that matter. Still, history remembered Margaery Tyrell as cunning and deceptively beautiful and this was a shred more truthful than the pitiful Sansa Stark, soft hearted as she was brainless.

Most definitely, history did not write of the affair between the Tyrell and Stark girl. It was strange stain in historical chapters where its pages only spoke of couplings between men and women or whispered of the prince-knight who never married. But if one were to squint, they would realize the Queensroad’s construction began from Highgarden and Winterfell at the same time. Travelers and merchants took the road often because it was the fastest route from the two cities, as if its rulers had reason to meet often. If a discerning eye happened upon the journal of a page girl they would have realized Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell “were always in each other’s company, as if one were the shadow the other.”

Another journal, this one from a courier, noted how he happened upon “the Lady of Winterfell intimately pressed against Margaery Tyrell, both seated on a bench as snow fell.  Tyrell’s girl was reading aloud and the Lady looked very captivated by the book.” The courier would mention, later, on the footnote how they reminded him of himself and his wife but thought it strange to see two women together.

He dismissed it entirely and so did history. This came as no surprise; history more often took the word of a man’s than a woman’s.

Margaery spent four years in Sansa’s court before the Dragon Queen arrived, hoping to unite Westoros. Not many know what happened in Winterfell—only that the Others attacked, the Dragon Queen lost a dragon and, with the dragon’s death, Sansa Stark’s favors with her were gone.

The Battle of Winter’s End marked the separation of Westoros. Daenerys Targaryen returned south and took King’s Landing, refusing to lend her men or remaining dragons to The North. Margaery Tyrell did not take kindly to the offense made to her lover and returned to The Reach to claim dead father’s land.

It would take many more years to reunite Westoros, another wave of game players took to the chestboard and replaced the power vacuum created by its separation.  It was Margaery’s adopted son—flaming haired and looking so much like Sansa Stark that when Daenerys Targaryen burned down Highgarden, The Rose Queen could not leave the orphaned boy to burn—who repelled the Others from Winterfell.

Its people crowned him a Stark believing him another bastard son, but son enough to lead it’s people. Sansa smiled at this and Margaery pressed a kiss to Sansa’s hand, thus allying The Reach and North. The remaining population of the Reach rallied for revenge, wanting blood and more blood from the Dragon Queen because she took their crops and gardens, sons and daughters in the fire. Margaery Tyrell’s son—or Sansa Stark’s heir, this varied depending on which historian was writing—drew upon their strength and redirected it North.

He was winter’s son, surely, for the way the cold never bothered him. His southron mother likened him to his Stark heritage—despite not having a drop of Stark blood. Sansa Stark doted on the boy, not yet two tens when he pressed the Others to the Wall. She worried endlessly for him, perhaps it was because he had Robb’s determination and Arya’s skills with the sword, all those things she missed in her siblings.

By the time Allan Stark-Tyrell finished, The Dragon Queen had grown tired of war and bent the knee, albeit slowly. Sansa Stark forgave her easily, Margaery Tyrell forgave with contempt but her boy would be made king, herself Queen and Sansa silenced Margaery with enough kisses at night to keep her from plotting Daenerys’ death.

The Queensroad between Winterfell and Highgarden, the road Margaery took to attend Sansa’s court, the same road Margaery took again to rule a kingdom as its Queen remained opened. It flourished. King Allan once remarked how he remembered his mother riding it alone, bringing him to the North, the heat of dragon’s fire at his back and the cold of The North to his front.

Like most women, Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell disappeared from history’s pages after Allan took the throne. No one knew for sure where the women disappeared to. Historical journals remarked how often the women would be seen together, sometimes in the rebuilt castle of Winterfell with its glass gardens, a prince from Estoros once mentioned seeing two women dancing together at the Highgarden’s annual masquerade, one with hair the color of sunset. Daenerys Targaryen lived out her days with her two dragons and, like the two former-queens, she never took a husband. Her dragons grew with her, laying their lives with the girl when she was taken from them in old age.

               

W **—Watch**

Margaery and Sansa are ladies.

They are private, they are proper and they do not betray their innermost desires to even their closes friends.

Still, Margaery can’t help but love the way it feels when she has her legs clamped around Sansa’s waist, water rushing down her back, Sansa’s breasts rubbing against her front. It is the one indulgence she allows herself; this liberation from a tight dress and the expectations to be Tommen’s Queen, _the_ Queen.

Her personal bath, the Queen’s bath, is expansive. Built with marble and solid limestone accents, Margaery and her ladies in waiting often bathed in it. Occasionally, Sansa will join. Once in a while Margaery will take Sansa’s hand and pull her in the bath, just them.

They explore whatever depths time allows them to. Margaery believes she could spend the next three lifetimes lying naked as the day she was born with Sansa, tonguing every crevice and bend of her curves. The first time Margaery made Sansa break, release and cry out, she swears there is no music better than the sounds Sansa makes.

They’ve gone farther now, _inside_ , deeper; nothing was as gentle as the first time. They seek each other, each time more desperately than the last. Margaery can go a few days, Sansa can last a week, barely, without feeling as if a part of her existence were tearing into pieces.  Neither understand the craving, only sate it whenever the hungry beast presents itself.

It’s been two weeks now, two painful weeks because King Tommen put together a hunting party that spanned three days, Lady Olenna visited and more courtly-queenly duties required tending to than usual. When Margaery could no longer hold herself together, she dismisses her maids and pulls Sansa into the bath before sup.

She needs Sansa, _now_.

Still they are slow, gingerly undressing themselves, exchanging pleasantries about the latest gossip or the weather or something equally mindlessly frivolous. It is not until Sansa is stepping into the bath that Margaery rushes forward, grabbing the girl and pressing their naked skin together. Sansa lets out a whine. Margaery’s hands are everywhere, searching and touching what is _hers_.

Water is splashed onto smooth skin, Margaery pushes Sansa towards the deeper end of the bath and almost fully submerges their bodies.

“Your Grace,” Sansa manages, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure when Margaery begin tonguing the juncture of her neck. Margaery does not understand why Sansa seems to reject these feelings, it is as if she is ashamed to be pleased. There was nothing to be ashamed of. To prove her point, Margaery’s hand slips between them, groping two mounds of flesh at Sansa’s chest.

Her fingers brush past hard, aching nipples, Sansa lets out a cry that ignites the area between Margaery’s leg. “Look at me,” Margaery orders in a tone she only uses to command the court’s attention. It is quiet yet resounding, somehow soft and demanding at the same time. “Sansa.”

Sansa peels her dark eyes open, the line between her eyebrows deepen.

“Sweet girl,” Margaery coos, smiling. A hand leaves Sansa’s breasts, dips between slim legs. “Keep your eyes open.”

Margaery leans forward, drops of water dripping from her chin. “I want you to watch me fuck you.”

 

M – **Ms. T.**

The first time Sansa sees her, she’s reading to the little children in a bright sundress speckled with sunflower patterns. Sansa pushes up her reading glasses and, instead of asking the woman to quiet down the youngsters, watches from the corner desk.  Sansa doesn’t say anything as the woman leaves with several children carrying stacks of books following her like ducklings to its mother.

To her surprise though, the woman returns, with a different set of children, the next Tuesday. And the Tuesdays after that. And after that.

Every Tuesday she comes with her gaggle of pre-teens, some of them dipping into the single digits in ages. It makes Sansa’s skin crawl watching so many rifle through book after book. She imagines the cheap binding breaking apart, the deepening of wrinkles that will eventually turn into tears and it makes her terribly uncomfortable. Still, Sansa can’t say anything to the woman—she’s not allowed to. The woman makes the children pick out novels, picture books, anything that they want and pays the huge fine that comes with borrowing thirty plus books.  

Word is she got the library’s director to override the book limit just so she could check out all the books under her name. Sometimes the children will lose a few books and she’ll come back with an apologetic look in her face and big doe eyes all honey brown as she hands Sansa a fresh new copy, asking her to reprint the barcodes. Sansa does, only because it’s her job.

After a month of Tuesdays with the woman, she starts coming with the teenagers on Thursdays. They’re more quiet, their cloths more raggedy, some of them have dirt under their fingernails and Sansa can’t imagine what their fingerprints will look like on the crisp white pages of the novels they pick out. Some of them don’t look too happy to attend and they barely read the summaries of the book before sticking it into the basket.

Sansa is hesitant to check them out but the woman has money, lots of it, enough to keep the board members from saying anything when Sansa mentions having to print out new labels for books on a weekly basis. So Sansa, skin bristling and biting her lip, watches her books disappear into the hands of teenagers she would rather not know. The woman, always last to check out, actually hands her a book that first Thursday.

She’s never done this before. The woman has never checked out a book for herself so Sansa can’t help but look down and see the cover and her blood runs cold. It’s a worn book, a long and well loved book by Sansa and she can’t remember how many times she’s read that specific book before deciding it should be donated to the little library of hers.

Sansa looks up, flushing. The woman is staring at her and behind the pleasant smile Sansa can sense the intensity of the woman’s gaze. “Why don’t I grab you a different copy?” Sansa asks in an even, uninterested tone. “This one’s been marked on.”

Marked on by me, she wants to say. Gods she had loved that book and no one’s ever checked out the copy because its pages are yellowed and theres water damage on the left side from the time Sansa had cried onto it. Once in a while, Sansa will think of the person to choose her copy and she always imagined him to be tall and dark haired with thick rimmed glasses, a yellow plaid scarf wrapped around his neck and a messenger bag thrown across his shoulder. Handsome, but not rudely so with a boyish smile and perhaps a good side burn.

That’s who she imagined.

She did not imagine it to be a woman, startlingly beautiful with her sundresses even though it is autumn and the air is cold. Sansa did not imagine it at all, it’s all wrong in her head but the woman is adamant to keep the copy.

“It’s got charm,” the woman says, brushing back cascading brown hair behind her shoulder, voice the sound of wind against meadows on a sunny day, “whoever wrote in it loved it a lot.”

“I’m sure they did,” Sansa says as she scans the barcode for _Fried Green Tomatoes_ _at the Whistle Stop Café_.

Xxx

The woman comes back the next Thursday, with the same set of teenagers. Instead of making them pick out books, she uses the back corner where she usually reads to the youngsters to set up a circle. Sansa counts six of them, two girls, four boys, a mix of races all wearing various styles of clothing. They all huff as they force themselves onto the children’s chairs and the sight makes Sansa smile as she leans against the bookshelf, listening.

They take turns going through the books they’ve chosen. Ms. T—that’s what the teens call her—sets the tone, asks one of the girls to tell them about the book she’s chosen. It’s John Green novel, the one that’s being made into a movie, and so far the girl really likes Augustus but thinks Hazel is “a little whining bitch.”

Sansa thinks she should leave, thinks she should return to her work but she wants to stay and listen, wants to hear what the woman has to say about _her_ copy of _Fried Green Tomatoes_. Of course, Ms. T speaks last and it comes out like poetry, right out of a novel, purple prose and perfect diction.

“I didn’t actually read this book—I’ve read it before, actually,” she admits although there is no shame in her voice. Sansa has to strain her ears to listen to a faint murmur that she realizes is the sound of pages turning. “I checked it out because I wanted to read the comments made in the books. Here, if you see, the reader’s marked it with hearts.” Pages flip some more, “and you’ll see here, they’re written some commentary in the margins.”

“I want you to do just that, write on the books.” The teenagers look horrified. “Deface them, doodle in the margins, doodle scenes in the chapter openings, anything.”

“We’re allowed to do that?” asks one of the teenagers.

The woman nods and then winks. “I’ll buy the library a new set of books.” She closes the book and sets it gingerly on her lap. “My point is, Karen, if you think Hazel is a whining bitch, mark it. Draw frowny faces every time you feel that way.”

Karen pipes up. “Isn’t that, like, bad?”

“Why?” Ms. T asks in a non-hostile tone. She sounds sincere.

“Aren’t you supposed to like the book that you’re reading?”

“Not necessarily.” Ms. T’s lip scrunch, “Who here has taken a hiking trip?”

A boy, African American with pants hanging far too low for Sansa’s comfort, speaks up. “My family took one once, back when Pops was still kickin’.”

“Did you get ever get tired on the trip, Andre?”Ms. T tilts her head which somehow makes her look less menacing and much more inviting. “Did your shoes get too hot or you got blisters or the insets bothered you?”

“Fuck yeah!” Sansa winces at the crude language that her fortunate upbringing kept her away from. “Gran picked the longest, most uphill trail you could choose. It was hot as balls and Gran was 80 years old but that didn’t stop her from goin’.”

“You sound like your enjoyed the trip though,” Ms. T muses.

Andre nods, “It was the last time I saw my family together, Ms. T.” He pauses, swallowing. “And when we got to the top, man, the view? Fucking fantastic.”

“Exactly right. Reading a book—you’re not going to enjoy every part of it.” The woman looks pleased, she’s sweeping her gaze around the circle until she stops, staring right at Sansa. “Perhaps, it is the struggle that makes the book worth reading.”

Ms. T dismisses them after that, tells them they have the rest of the hour to choose a different book or continue with the one they’re reading. She moves from teenager to teenager, some of them more excited to annotate their novel than others but by the end of the library session, she’s got everyone to write in their books.

When they leave, she lingers behind.

“I hope you don’t mind the kids writing on your books, Ms. Stark.” Ms. T is smiling, handing her the copy of _Fried Green Tomatoes_. Sansa has to look away, still embarrassed that she was caught watching. Ms. T doesn’t bring it up though, and continues on as if Sansa had stumbled upon her reading session instead of eavesdropping like she was.  

“They’re not mine,” is all Sansa can say as she takes the book back. “I don’t think management would have a problem if you brought back new copies.”

When Sansa looks up from placing the book into the refiling bin, the woman’s eyebrows are perched at the top of her forehead. Her eyes are inquisitive, bearing down on Sansa with unabashed curiosity. “ _None_ of the books are yours?” she asks in a tone that betrays her insight.

Sansa’s hands still, they meet eyes but this time it is different. Something inside of Sansa pulls and curls, the pit of her stomach turns like gravity had been reversed. Ms. T knows.

As if reading her mind, the young woman smiles innocently. “I had just thought—whoever wrote in Fried Green Tomatoes—they would be remarkably similar to you.”

Sansa averts her eyes. “Why do you say that?”

Ms. T smiles. “It’s a hunch,” she says as she turns to leave.

Sansa spends the rest of her night rereading her copy of Fried Green Tomatoes.

Xxxx

Sansa doesn’t know what compels her to do it but she sets up an area for the teens. It’s basic, using one of the back rooms that had once been storage space for books that had just been recycled. With a little hassle, Sansa forces several chairs around the small table and relabels the plaque on the door to “Study Room 100”.

She’s antsy when Ms. T comes in with the usual six. They hadn’t spoken last Tuesday—partially because Sansa made an effort to keep from wandering too close. As usual, at half past five, the teenagers come in. Karen is dressed in all black, thick eyeliner and mascara, fishnets running down her arms and legs. Andre is sporting a bruise on his left cheek—Sansa tries not to think of what may have caused it. The four whose names escape her also file in after Ms. T.

Ms. T is wearing a long coat dark today and it covers most of the green dress she has on. Sansa half-heartedly mentions that a new has been cleared to be used for by the public and Ms. T sends her an appreciative glance, coupled with a disarming smile. Somehow, she gets the feeling that the woman knows Sansa did it for her.

They fall into a routine after that. Sansa begins helping out in little ways, preparing whatever whatever activity Ms. T had planned for the evening or setting out a tray of cookies for the children even though food is strictly against the library’s policy. Sansa had never fancied herself a rule breaker but theres something about the way Ms. T smiles at her when she does it—or how her heart warms at the sight of the children lining up with their paper plates to grab at her homebaked goodies.

It’s a snowy evening when Sansa falls in love. An evening that forces Ms. T to stay a little later because the teenager’s book session had run long; Augustus had died and Karen spent ten full minutes crying her eyes out. This lead onto the topic of death, and loss and Andre was suddenly talking about his Pops, and the two siblings—Kevin and Anna—are talking about their parents. They’re not dead, Sansa had overheard, just negligent and the two don’t know what’s worse; having parents who aren’t alive or ones that don’t care.

Everyone leaves a little high strung, with a little bit of melancholy in their steps but Sansa can feel their bonds strengthen. Ms. T stays even longer to talk to Andre, the two siblings walk out with Karen and a boy whose name escapes Sansa. They’re planning on seeing a movie together. By the time the library is clear of everyone except for Sansa and Ms. T, it is almost closing time.

“The kids—they’re from broken homes, aren’t they?” Sansa asks almost to herself as Ms. T gives her yet another book to replace a lost one.

Ms. T shoots her a look, Sansa doesn’t know how to describe it, her eyes fold as if seeing someone try to put on shoes backwards. There was pity—and something else in her eyes, like she were staring at the sweet naiveté of Sansa’s comment.

“They’re from a homeless shelter,” is all Ms. T says. “My family funds a lot of the charities around King’s Landing—but I prefer to be hands on.”

Sansa is immediately shameful. She doesn’t, hasn’t ever considered the hardships of the children Ms. T brings into her library. Some of them look tired, a few makes her grimace but the idea a that they are homeless puts things into perspective. “The little ones—their parents work late. They depend on the charity to babysit after the children finish school, keep them off the streets.”

“I take them out here sometimes, the ones who want to go. I can’t show them the world but the world exists in your library, Ms. Stark, and I can show them books.” Everything Ms. T says is poetic, as if she had been raised on Shakespearean sonnets, Sansa thinks.

“I’m honored,” is all Sansa can reply. “If you need help—“

“—heavens, no.” Ms. T stops her, “My family will not approve the building of a youth program building—the zoning districts managers are slick and no mega-corporation in downtown wants to attract the…shall we say, lower ranks of society? You’ve provided me a space where the children can blossom.” Ms. T smiles. This one is warm and small and private, like a secret note had just been passed under the teacher’s nose. “I should be thanking you, Ms. Stark.”

“It’s Sansa,” she says. Ms. T leans forward, the oak desk between Sansa and herself suddenly feels like it is far too wide. “My name’s Sansa.”

Ms. T repeats her name, tasting it in her mouth. Her smile turns radiant like she is somehow pleased to receive the small bit of information. “I’m Margaery. Margaery Tyrell.”

Margaery reaches out a hand and Sansa takes it, shaking gently. Margaery’s eyes will not leave Sansa’s and Sansa can’t force herself to look at the other woman without blushing. Her belly flops, fills itself with butterflies. When the silence becomes overwhelming, Sansa looks at the clock and feigns urgency. “It’s closing time,” Sansa says, “I’m sorry to say but you’ll have to leave.

 “Of course, of course.” Margaery nods then waves goodbye. She turns to leave but stops after taking a few steps. This catches Sansa’s eye because Margaery has never done anything without certainty and it was strange to see the woman so hesitant.

“Sansa?” she calls out, turning back around. Her name sounds so good coming from Margaery. “Listen, I’ve got some really good wine in my apartment—Cabernet Sauvignon imported from Tuscany. I’ve already opened it and it’s too much for me to drink by myself—“

“Yes,” Sansa answers cutting Margaery off mid-sentence. It comes out rushed and unprofessional but Sansa’s chest is thundering and her ears are red and she’s been waiting for an invitation for coffee or wine or _something_ from the other woman for over a month now. “I would love to.”

Later, Sansa would realize that Margaery definitely didn’t have a wine bottle open and she only shares her direct from Tuscany imports for special occasions. Later, Sansa would find out that Margaery made the lamest excuse to bring her to her flat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
